Dear friend,
The horizon was beautiful as I held the conch.Distant resonance of the entirety of the universe,I heard.
Like the rolling of mighty waves into the womb of wet sand.
Back and forth.Back and Forth.
I walked the shore line, circle after circle.And somewhere between the end and the begin, I was a bird.
Eating out of the palm of Mother Earth.Flying freely and shooting into cold indigo starlight.Maybe I was a satellite.Who knew, do we ever?
I live by the shadows and swim into its umbra.Because water takes the shape of the vessel.And I sometimes talk about politics and the Nation.
I see floral skirts in summer skies and gusts of wind and some fun.
I saw love and it is,vain.
I saw years and autumn leaves.
I saw young lovebirds and the fall.
The fall of what? You tell.
I see life and I see a mirror.
Telephones ring and I feel like reality.
And I don't like it,really.Because with it come the past and future.
So I go back to hiding in umbrae,swimming in fathomless oceans,diving into perdition and my bed was on fire.
So I dusted the burnt bedsheet, put the ashes out.
Warmed my palms in mittens and forgot about stimuli.
I read the news paper and shed too many tears.
I mocked the government for far too many years.
I washed love off my linen.So what? Do I pick weapons and march to war?
Hallelujah, I'm a bum.
And life still goes on, like the rolling of mighty waves into the womb of wet sand.
Back and forth.Back and Forth.
16.7.10
18.6.10
dark coffee and thundershowers,with a hint of lonely
And the evening bulb had lived its fair due. It flickered. Like a dying butterfly. Faded into the darkness of the room, its tungsten electrified, one last time, before it broke beyond repair. Virginity taken.
As a silhouette stepped out of the darkness into its parasol, it was like waves of rain lashing against the choppy sea rocks. Or maybe it was the darkness’ mind. It does, if you could identify you’d know, it has its own mind. Silhouettes and darkness in shades of their umbrae and penumbrae cascaded against the polished wooden chocolate brown floorboards. In the distance, much closer to the lavishly sized window, one could see golden embroidery on the ivory carpet. I liked carpets in the skies, where they can fly into an Arabian Night.
And as the waves rolled along and the room grew darker to weary eyes. Lightning struck and in it, glimmered the most magnificent skinned woman. What moved in the darkness was the cape of her fine dress. She lay there propped against the bed side.
Beautifuller than moonlit shores and orchids in wild paradise. The giant ruby against her chest, brought her eyes out.
Her eyes, as pale as the distance of the sea, promised eternity. Her tresses worn against her bare shoulders, sliding like a waterfall onto the rest of her bodice.
And if she could sing, you fall in love, my child.
But alas, she is the corpse bride.
As a silhouette stepped out of the darkness into its parasol, it was like waves of rain lashing against the choppy sea rocks. Or maybe it was the darkness’ mind. It does, if you could identify you’d know, it has its own mind. Silhouettes and darkness in shades of their umbrae and penumbrae cascaded against the polished wooden chocolate brown floorboards. In the distance, much closer to the lavishly sized window, one could see golden embroidery on the ivory carpet. I liked carpets in the skies, where they can fly into an Arabian Night.
And as the waves rolled along and the room grew darker to weary eyes. Lightning struck and in it, glimmered the most magnificent skinned woman. What moved in the darkness was the cape of her fine dress. She lay there propped against the bed side.
Beautifuller than moonlit shores and orchids in wild paradise. The giant ruby against her chest, brought her eyes out.
Her eyes, as pale as the distance of the sea, promised eternity. Her tresses worn against her bare shoulders, sliding like a waterfall onto the rest of her bodice.
And if she could sing, you fall in love, my child.
But alas, she is the corpse bride.
shambles.
And as I condemn all men
of this world.
All I think about is your chin,
on the nape of my neck,
never again.
all men of this world.
of this world.
All I think about is your chin,
on the nape of my neck,
never again.
all men of this world.
15.6.10
whirlwinds and there after
Inebriate serpentine rain clouds
that danced beneath your locks,
of waterfalls of curls that cascade.
Such was the warmth of the fireplace
that burned down the wine cellars
and drapes caught flames.
After all waterfalls empty into
churning oceans
mighty waves;
And a drowning sailor
Never sails the south seas again.
The sheets sprawled
like the sunny skies;
Wet rain clouds bereft
the bed left unmade
the shivering thunder unfelt
the words unsaid.
Down one’s own highway
man and maiden, left.
that danced beneath your locks,
of waterfalls of curls that cascade.
Such was the warmth of the fireplace
that burned down the wine cellars
and drapes caught flames.
After all waterfalls empty into
churning oceans
mighty waves;
And a drowning sailor
Never sails the south seas again.
The sheets sprawled
like the sunny skies;
Wet rain clouds bereft
the bed left unmade
the shivering thunder unfelt
the words unsaid.
Down one’s own highway
man and maiden, left.
4.5.10
Because.
like lullabies of children who's old men fought the revolution.
and visits of wallowing pride to graveyards and morgues.
let me design a wreath of honor worn across my forehead as thorns.
and if fullstops were seen by you between my sobs.
you'd know i don't speak like chewing gum.
but for all that was spent and all that is left to say.
i will run.
run through the wind,away.
18.12.09
Goodbye.
See you at Running in Circles blog two.
Except where otherwise noted, Mamta Venkateshprasad Iyer's photos and text are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 3.0 License.
bittersweet
1.
And I romanticized paper planes clipped to clothing lines while you wrote bruised notes of dying carnal lust; and then the clock shrugged midnight.
2.
As I snuck beneath the pale cotton sheet, wrung and hung tied so tight. Like paper neath sun and its light, You shrugged and pulled me in along with the freshly washed rose scented linen sheet that stiffened through day,now night. Cause you knew I’d peel to just your sight.
3.
Teasing wind in the curve of my mouth we tasted the dust of heavens pure plight. Oh the song lasted, all day that quarter of a night.
4.
the print of your finger on the chinaware out from which poured like hot breaths on your elfin ears like drinking earl grey tea in watery milk and sugary lies. Like train journeys in winter which went through winding tunnels; through the damp smell of lavender and moist ancient grime, it chugged past station and tunnel alike. and that's why I'd say I like traveling, you together on this ride. because it has no end, till final destination arrives. - and in your indigo ocean paired eyes, I’d smell the tingle of mud soaked rain and sea salts making quick dreams through a fluff of soft and many cheek pecks and then i remembered to plan breakfast for next time so save the end of the song through tonight. as you always leave stealthily on monday mornings for work ; - And then we kissed under the arch of midnight dreams on lofty pillows and in the warmth of the cleft of your arm. wasted and spent within as we fell apart on the same sheet that once lay on the clothes line. - and i groggily wake up to the rhythmic weekend and your snuggle at sunrise and wrap myself in your side of the bed sheet trying to sniff you out into my button shaped nostrils. - as the sun pierced through my eyes, light and darkness together this time. I had dreamed of bittersweet goodbye.
20.11.09
10.11.09
Writer's Block.
It feels like an infinite breeze. Raging. Whirlpools of dust engulfing what could be but seems like the only left. And still miles out of reach.
Why is each step a stride and why does each petal die?
Like evening twilights or maybe the street lamps at the eve of dawn.
Flickering to burn but put out. That too after an entire day of exhaustion to burn it’s promised due.
The grass had a faint fragrance of the dampness of the once fresh roses that now smell like the youth in raw bitter myrrh. Of fresh new bodies crammed in between the peace of the old graveyard. That reeked of an overdose of white powder called crack and its itch.
Like the stale smell of spilt ink across paper which could have been the story of the corpse bride beside the major’s coffin. Children died of the plague and the mothers gathered them with love for the lost and mostly inane suffering. Wrung.
The horizon didn’t meet the sea anymore. There was a distance. Of grey. Dorian Grey. The sea was a deep color that reflected spools of light rays in every direction crisscrossing in random directions, bouncing over the sea like a military of serpents charging at a terrestrial army for war.
Why wasn’t it a rainbow after the sandalwood and thyme drizzle that blazoned the earth’s crust? Searing in drop at a time.
The news channels were a bleak promise of an awaiting disaster. The news papers reeked of death and destruction and threat and suffering.
Why would a poet want to write about making love or be bothered by the occasional whiff of carnal instinct in purity of real sin? When all of what would reek instead of epinephrine, were soggy re used cotton bandages to blot blood of skin before we put our kin out on bon voyage across the river Styx?
Why were we killing? Why were children to the old calling pills, happy and popping them like candy and sugar treats? And some of the one’s who didn’t picked up guns and knives that slashed through life, whether searing through the oxygen we breathed, ran bullets in swiftness of dismay; like the stench of a knife in skin of thy kith, of irony it bled as it ended together, him and us, in silence we walk away?
Is life so empty and wasted to us like a drink – a – rum stint by the bay?
But that was with fairy lights and women with hips like mermaids that ran ripples in the pond as you stepped into its icy cold itch and spread love as you decided to sway, with them! It was of music and bongo drums that throbbed in your temples that were now slave to the mystic gaze across the table right there, laughing in her moment with a memory of her past escapades?
Why was it always war? And NEVER the time to celebrate and make merry in stupor of a buzz and zing of crushed ice and the strongest of malts taking over your very body, stealing it from your mind?
Why did men come, only to leave beds? Why did they hold hands and walk away? Why was it not the Cuban cigar and smolder, lit after orgasms but only the smell of gun powder smoke? Cause you sold your soul to it? You won the war, my friend, but sold you soul to gunpowder smoke.Yes.
Are we so distraught like an earthen intricately sculpted pot in a desert? To just remove our clothes at the end of night and be two tired weary lovers that slept on different beds, and never thought of love? Because it was the other, we waited to love?
Fuck you, and you and fuck your Xanax. I could have a thirty of them and sleep like a baby and wake up the next day and do life instead of it writing me out. I could let pens re write over paper, piling onto written words and make a parchment of chaotic lexis and smear it across your bitter face and remind you that you’ll rot alone and never have her touch you, cause she’d be dead and you can call upon your crisp green notes and carry them in your pocket on a walk through the alien park, muffler and all, holding photographs or the skin that burned on your sinew of hatred and darkness of dismay.
Its raining outside like a shower tap was left loose and left dripping in its slowest by controlling and giving it only half of its original path way? We clogged our wells and now we cry for farmers ?
We beat the living shit out of the wild animals and put them in a zoo or now sneakily hit them with tranquilizers. But you stole, what’s theirs, you’ll pay. And now we play politics on wooden cedar and pine chair or rosewood, if you please its scent. Whatever happened to calling out each one of them and asking what they say? Clearing out your demons and drowning them in sin is like drinking to cirrhosis of the liver and refusing to drown yourself in the ocean and preferring to bleed to death, instead?
And I’ll live on in the ash of my unread parchments buried beneath the remains of human hate.
That will turn dust and blow away.
killing me killing you.
Why is each step a stride and why does each petal die?
Like evening twilights or maybe the street lamps at the eve of dawn.
Flickering to burn but put out. That too after an entire day of exhaustion to burn it’s promised due.
The grass had a faint fragrance of the dampness of the once fresh roses that now smell like the youth in raw bitter myrrh. Of fresh new bodies crammed in between the peace of the old graveyard. That reeked of an overdose of white powder called crack and its itch.
Like the stale smell of spilt ink across paper which could have been the story of the corpse bride beside the major’s coffin. Children died of the plague and the mothers gathered them with love for the lost and mostly inane suffering. Wrung.
The horizon didn’t meet the sea anymore. There was a distance. Of grey. Dorian Grey. The sea was a deep color that reflected spools of light rays in every direction crisscrossing in random directions, bouncing over the sea like a military of serpents charging at a terrestrial army for war.
Why wasn’t it a rainbow after the sandalwood and thyme drizzle that blazoned the earth’s crust? Searing in drop at a time.
The news channels were a bleak promise of an awaiting disaster. The news papers reeked of death and destruction and threat and suffering.
Why would a poet want to write about making love or be bothered by the occasional whiff of carnal instinct in purity of real sin? When all of what would reek instead of epinephrine, were soggy re used cotton bandages to blot blood of skin before we put our kin out on bon voyage across the river Styx?
Why were we killing? Why were children to the old calling pills, happy and popping them like candy and sugar treats? And some of the one’s who didn’t picked up guns and knives that slashed through life, whether searing through the oxygen we breathed, ran bullets in swiftness of dismay; like the stench of a knife in skin of thy kith, of irony it bled as it ended together, him and us, in silence we walk away?
Is life so empty and wasted to us like a drink – a – rum stint by the bay?
But that was with fairy lights and women with hips like mermaids that ran ripples in the pond as you stepped into its icy cold itch and spread love as you decided to sway, with them! It was of music and bongo drums that throbbed in your temples that were now slave to the mystic gaze across the table right there, laughing in her moment with a memory of her past escapades?
Why was it always war? And NEVER the time to celebrate and make merry in stupor of a buzz and zing of crushed ice and the strongest of malts taking over your very body, stealing it from your mind?
Why did men come, only to leave beds? Why did they hold hands and walk away? Why was it not the Cuban cigar and smolder, lit after orgasms but only the smell of gun powder smoke? Cause you sold your soul to it? You won the war, my friend, but sold you soul to gunpowder smoke.Yes.
Are we so distraught like an earthen intricately sculpted pot in a desert? To just remove our clothes at the end of night and be two tired weary lovers that slept on different beds, and never thought of love? Because it was the other, we waited to love?
Fuck you, and you and fuck your Xanax. I could have a thirty of them and sleep like a baby and wake up the next day and do life instead of it writing me out. I could let pens re write over paper, piling onto written words and make a parchment of chaotic lexis and smear it across your bitter face and remind you that you’ll rot alone and never have her touch you, cause she’d be dead and you can call upon your crisp green notes and carry them in your pocket on a walk through the alien park, muffler and all, holding photographs or the skin that burned on your sinew of hatred and darkness of dismay.
Its raining outside like a shower tap was left loose and left dripping in its slowest by controlling and giving it only half of its original path way? We clogged our wells and now we cry for farmers ?
We beat the living shit out of the wild animals and put them in a zoo or now sneakily hit them with tranquilizers. But you stole, what’s theirs, you’ll pay. And now we play politics on wooden cedar and pine chair or rosewood, if you please its scent. Whatever happened to calling out each one of them and asking what they say? Clearing out your demons and drowning them in sin is like drinking to cirrhosis of the liver and refusing to drown yourself in the ocean and preferring to bleed to death, instead?
And I’ll live on in the ash of my unread parchments buried beneath the remains of human hate.
That will turn dust and blow away.
killing me killing you.
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